


Windcock

by Basingstoke



Series: Unfinished WIP clearinghouse [8]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/M, M/M, Queer Culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:29:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A former lover of Moist's is hired at the bank.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Windcock

Moist had an excellent memory for people. Had to, in his former line of work. (And current. You never knew where a face would pop up.)

He knew the new teller at the bank immediately, though of course he hadn't know the man's name. They had both attended a secret meeting of the Ankh-Morpork Latatian Art History Society, invitation only, which took place in a dimly lit house with a great many small bedrooms. 

Moist was attending at the invitation of his latest target, convincing him that Moist was trustworthy and he would be only too happy to invest his money in the scheme. The plan was to drink, chat, and admire the young men around them; easy enough. 

But then a young man bought Moist a drink. He was dark, tall, thin, with enormous black eyes. He introduced himself as John. Moist introduced himself as Ivan. He wasn't often drawn by people, but when John placed both hands on his thighs and said, "Come with me," Moist did. 

He shivered at the memory. He felt the man's eyes on him, so he pressed the issue; he removed his hat, tossing it onto the hatstand with verve and elan. He crossed the bank floor and clapped his hand on the new teller's shoulder. "Torvald Rhys-Jones. Welcome to the Bank," he said, extending his other hand. 

Torvald shook his hand. He remembered Moist; no doubt now. "Plleasure to be here, sir," he said. His accent screamed Llamedos. Funny, Moist thought that was a haven for...their sort. 

"Come through to my office, have a cup of tea," Moist said. 

And once Torvald was through the door, he was stroking the back of his hand down Moist's cheek. Moist caught his hand. "I have fond memories," Moist said. 

"Ivan," Torvald said. "I nearlly didn't recognize you." 

Moist smiled. He clasped Torvald's hand in both his. "I knew you."

"Are you--" 

"Nearly married." 

"Is it llove?" Torvald asked, barely above a breath.

Moist nodded. 

"Ah, I'm gllad, then. You're a true windcock, then?" 

"Windcock! Haven't heard that one before. I suppose I am." A windcock, pointing whichever way the wind blew. "I love her. I worship her." 

Torvald sighed. "Fond memories, then." 

"The fondest." Moist clapped him on the shoulder again. "Glad to see you here. We need good men at the Bank." 

He could have fallen into those black eyes if the lingering scent of Spike's cigarettes weren't clinging to his shirt. 

Home. Spike. She read a golem contract and he made her a cup of coffee. "I've been faithful," he said. 

Spike looked at him. 

"I'm employing an ex-lover at the Bank," he said. 

She ashed into a dish beside the contract and lifted an eyebrow. 

"A male ex-lover," he said. 

She looked at him. 

"No secrets," he said. 

"So you're widdershins?" 

"No, just a bit...hubwise, when the opportunity presents itself." 

 

...


End file.
